Secret Identities
by Roxy LaTour
Summary: What the rest of Knapp Street doesn't know won't hurt Angelface and Pookie Bear.


Shirley brushed through her short, dark coif with brisk strokes, half listening to Laverne ramble on about the handsy sap she was going out with that night, half studying herself in the mirror. She looked at her reflection with satisfaction. Every hair in place, lashes curled, with just the right amount of mascara so as not to look like every other bimbo from the block, cheeks naturally rosy under lightly powdered skin, and lips tinted with a come-hither shade of cherry red Max Factor. Wide-eyed innocence with a touch of sin. She strategically placed three dabs of his favorite fragrance on her skin: one in the hollow at the base of her throat, and one on each wrist. Not too much. Just enough. Good girls don't smell like perfumed whores.

And she was a good girl, at least as far as most of Knapp Street knew, with one notable exception. There was one man she allowed behind her iron curtain of virtuosity, and he'd carefully cultivated the trust that gained him admittance over many years. Shirley understood that her hold on him was strong and she wielded her feminine power like a scepter, granting or denying favor as suited her needs and her cycle. She relished the control she exercised. It was one area in which she felt completely in charge of her own destiny, and he certainly never complained- at least not in earnest.

He was incredibly patient with her. Attentive to the point of slavish devotion. Yes, he dated other women, but that was also a part of their arrangement. She knew where his heart lived and that none of those other girls could give him what she did. Though they never told one another about their other dates, she could always tell when he'd been out with someone else because his hunger for her trebled, and that was a special reward unto itself. More than anything, he loved her beyond reason, and she felt it in every kiss, every word, every time she caught him staring at her across a crowded room, and every time he defended her honor. She loved him too, body and soul.

He was tender and thoughtful like no man before or since, and even his closest friends would be surprised by the depth he revealed only to Shirley. She'd grown up in a houseful of men who were about as profound as a wet sponge, and almost as emotional. Aloof was a key tenet of Feeney family survival. Any vulnerability would be exploited by her mother, so secrecy under a happy face was everyone's m.o. But then into her life came Carmine. Confident, strong Carmine who wore his heart on his sleeve and lived his thoughts out loud. She sometimes wondered what her mother would make of her relationship with him. No doubt she'd kneecap the both of them with a thinly veiled insult aimed at her virtue or his background. She wished Carmine could hear the way her mother spoke to her, just so he could take her down a peg or two. He'd never stand for anyone trying to make Shirley feel small. He was terribly brave and wonderfully liberating, and her life changed in so many ways and forever when she became his girl. Maybe someday she'd marry him. Maybe he wouldn't leave like Daddy left Mama (and her).

He knew her inside and out, and never judged her thoughts or desires, only fulfilled them with an eagerness she never could have imagined those many years she'd denied him. When she first let him have his way with her (or was it her way?) she'd feared she'd immediately lose him to his next conquest, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. Consummating their relationship had only stoked his commitment to her, and every time since had brought rekindled intensity that she sometimes felt would consume them both. That he still called her Angelface after all of the unspeakable acts they'd performed on and with each other thrilled her beyond belief. The very word on his lips became an aphrodisiac and a coded prelude to passion.

As much as she raved about her doctors, there was no substitute for her pugilistic dancer. The broad, smooth chest she burned for, the v formed by his hipbones, and the curve of his muscular ass were irresistible. Her body ached for his strong arms around her, his thick thighs parting her own. Being close in height, their bodies aligned perfectly, as though made for each other. What he lacked in stature, he made up for in girth, and the feeling of his full weight pressing her to a mattress was a deep source of pleasure.

Laverne went on and on, and Shirley feigned shock and horror at her sexual rhetoric, all the while smiling inside. She admired Laverne's bawdy innocence and tame bravado. Despite her big talk, she'd somehow managed to be the nice young lady Shirley was so good at portraying, and it suited her. Shirley couldn't help but wonder at the diametrically opposed life roles each had assumed. Laverne talked like a vamp, and lived like a saint, while Shirley did the reverse. As much as she longed to reveal her secret to her, she couldn't bear it if Laverne lost respect for her or felt betrayed by a false idol. Laverne was the best friend she ever had, and she really didn't know what she'd do without her.

Besides, she didn't feel the need to divulge the details Laverne would surely insist upon. They were simply too delicious, too intimate to share, and the secret heightened her excitement. If Laverne knew what went on here while she was out late with her guy of the week, she'd never hear the end of it. No, she'd keep her worldly forays safely under wraps beneath an ironic virgin pin, and at the same time keep her image along with her treasured friendship intact.

There was his knock, right on time. Shirley licked her lips and gave herself a last once over in the vanity mirror, turning her body to smooth the yellow taffeta of her dress over her slender figure. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with confident self-approval. Flawless.

"Come in, Pookie Bear!"

* * *

He was right on time. He was always right on time, if not early. He could never be fashionably late with her. He'd showered and dressed, making sure his shirt and sports coat were on point, just the way she liked. He ran his fingers through his wayward curls and brushed and flossed. A splash of Aqua Velva, and he was out the door, brown eyes lit with anticipation for an evening out with his best girl. His only girl, really. As far as he was concerned, Shirley was the only one that mattered. The only one he'd save up the dough to take uptown to that fancy nightclub. With almost a full week's salary lining his pocket, he felt like John Beresford Tipton, and he was gonna show Shirley the first class evening he always wanted to give her. What she deserved.

He didn't mind the balance of power in their relationship. In fact, he dug that she held all the cards. He spent his days telling fawning women what to do at the studio. Letting his Angelface boss him around at night was more than a relief. It was a turn on. It got his motor running just thinking about it. He never knew if she was gonna send him for a cold shower or blow his mind, but she always made it worth his while in one way or another.

More than that, he knew she loved him. She loved him like he'd never been loved before. To a lot of women, he was a hunk of beefcake or a hot dancer, which he didn't mind all that much, but Shirley treated him like something more. He had dreams- big dreams- and Shirley believed in them. She supported him, and encouraged him to reach for that brass ring.

Most saw her as a phony baloney cockeyed optimist with her cheery disposition and her high hopes, but he knew she was the real deal. She actually believed in those dreams of hers and was gonna make them come true. Maybe for both of them. They were kindred spirits, and of all the mooks and broads in the neighborhood, he'd never met anyone who shared his kind of ambitions much less pursued them. Shirley was special. Together they'd escape Knapp Street.

Until then, their stolen time alone was his treasure. Thankfully, Laverne was a busy girl, so they'd get most weekend nights to themselves at the apartment. When Laverne went on an overnight to Chicago, it was heaven below street level. He loved staying the entire night with her in that little twin bed, holding her close, listening to her breathe. So much more than their usual spirited lust purge, it was a precious and rare event indeed. He'd have spent every night with her if he could, but that was impossible at the moment. She wasn't ready to marry him, which made his heart ache if he thought about it too long, and though he'd have been happy to have her shack up with him for overnights, she didn't want to be seen coming and going from his place at all hours, and besides, what would Laverne think?

He knew that if he wanted to keep her, he had to play by her rules. Rule number one: No one could ever know what went on in their private time. He played the part of the chaste lover well. Flawlessly, really. He credited his acting skills as much as his powerful motivation. Yeah, he got some flak for it down at the gym or from other women, but it was water off a duck's back at this point. He knew the rewards far exceeded the downside.

Never in a million years would he have suspected what a bombshell Shirley Wilhelmina Feeney would turn out to be when they started dating so long ago. He'd always knew there was more to her than met the eye. He'd caught glimpses of it many times before his cold showers. Her tongue worked miracles when she let it, and she always knew just where and how to touch him, even over the clothes. Her hunger matched his own, and he could see it laid bare in her eyes each time she pulled away from him.

And then there was the matter of Roxy LaTour. That had to come from somewhere inside of her. True Confessions didn't teach you all that. It wasn't long after Roxy that she stopped saying no. Though he believed her when she said he was her first, she was fearless and incredibly eager right out of the gate, and had an innate sexuality that defied all appearances. He'd laid a lot of other women over the years, but Shirley was a natural. If she hadn't bled that first night, he'd have figured her for an experienced woman. Not that he cared either way. She was his Angelface, with a heart and body to match.

She was a work of art, pale, lean and lithe. Not an ounce more on her than absolutely necessary. Laverne was always riding her about her lack of curves, but undressed, she was perfection. There were plenty of dames on the block putting the goods right out in the front window, but Shirley was a class act. Her gentle slopes and valleys, while not as pronounced as others, were his alone to discover and he worshipped every square inch of them. Put her in a cocktail dress, and he became especially possessive of her. He couldn't stand the thought of some clown's eyes on her. That he got to hold her, to explore her and feel her against him, under him, over him would never cease to amaze him. He couldn't wait another minute to see her.

He smoothed his jacket and pushed his hair back one more time before knocking. Shirley was neat as a pin, and he knew she liked him the same way. Clean body, filthy mind, he grinned to himself. It would be fun to see how long they could hold out at the nightclub before their libidos sent them racing home. Once he got her on the dance floor, he knew it wouldn't take long at all. He stretched his fingers and loosened up his neck muscles, readying himself for action. A staccato shave-and-a-haircut and it was off to the races.

"Hey, Angelface. Wow… You look beautiful."


End file.
